


Uncontrolled Descent

by Jay_eagle



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Caring, Douglas!whump, Friendship, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-16 01:44:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2251308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jay_eagle/pseuds/Jay_eagle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Douglas falls off the wagon with a phenomenal crash, and turns to Martin for help.</p><p>Written for a prompt on the meme, which can be found here (NB - will spoiler the ending to some extent): http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/6625.html?thread=13499105#cmt13499105 </p><p>Note triggers for alcohol abuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It started with a chocolate.

 

For goodness’ sake – Douglas didn’t even usually like sweets. But that evening in the Hose and Hydrant, following a distinctly _average_ day, Phil was offering them round. He’d had his 50 th birthday at the weekend and the fire crew had clubbed together – had bought him a racecar experience day and the box of assorted chocolates that he was generously sharing with all the regulars at the bar. Douglas opened his mouth to refuse, but then the memory of Carolyn bawling at Martin and him about their delayed landing resurfaced in his brain.

 

“What the hell,” he said, and took the nearest. “Thanks, Phil.” He bit into the dark heart of the truffle.

 

And choked as the tiny spurt of whisky at the centre shot across his tongue.

 

* * *

 

If that had been it, perhaps he would have been alright, Douglas reasoned, later. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t confronted temptation before; he’d felt distinct pride in his successes over the years. He’d negotiated birthday parties, fancy restaurant dinners, leaving do’s, post-divorce evenings alone; surely there was nothing left to conquer, no hurdles remaining to overcome? He’d gone to the meetings – he’d done the 12 steps. He was _Douglas Richardson_ , for crying out loud; there was nothing he couldn’t do. Once you’d conjured a £250,000 engine into being in Russia (well, as good as) – one little chocolate… that was nothing.

 

Except that all week, Douglas couldn’t get the taste-memory to leave him be. It wasn’t constant – just from time to time, it nagged at him. Usually when all else was quiet – when Martin was doing the walkround, leaving him in the flight deck, or when he got in from work, before the radio was switched on and the dinner went in the oven. It was a peculiar sensation. He could clearly picture the box of chocolates, the fancy label that he’d neglected to read before taking his foolish bite. He could practically feel the warmth in his throat – the welcome burn to which he’d once been so accustomed.

 

They’d had a busy few days at MJN, flying Mr Alyakin’s clients to and fro from Antibes four times. After the first couple of trips, the route had begun to bore Douglas, short hop though it was to the South of France. He couldn’t even be bothered to come up with any word games to play with Martin. Instead, he began to pass the time – without really thinking anything of it – musing on the taste that he missed so very, very much. The box of chocolates, so vividly imagined, had begun to be insidiously replaced with the golden bottle whose shape and weight had once been so familiar in his hand. He unconsciously licked his lips more than once.

 

But he was Douglas Richardson. He could resist temptation.

 

* * *

 

He bought the bottle to cook with. That was what it was for, of course it was. And so what if he chose the more expensive one, for once, rather than the cheap whisky he usually purchased to concoct this particular recipe? He deserved a treat, after the long, dull week that he’d endured, flying back and forth over the English Channel like some sort of deranged boomerang. Yes, it could be seen as extravagant, Douglas supposed, sticking 10-year-aged single malt into a recipe for lamb ribs – but who cared? He earned a reasonable salary, after all – he didn’t usually splash out. He needed a treat.

 

Douglas measured out the generous tot for the marinade and added it to the dish. A little of the liquid splashed back from the impact, splattering his hand. He licked his thumb, meditatively, while absorbing the next step of the instructions. Along with the taste.

 

The phone rang.

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

 

Was this his second glass? Or his third? It didn’t matter. Fuck her. _Fuck_ her.

 

* * *

 

The tumbler had smashed. Sod it. There was still the bottle, wasn’t there? He didn’t care anymore. He swigged, again and again, barely pausing to swallow between mouthfuls. His throat was on fire, the blaze consuming him, obliterating him, till he was blackened and dead inside. Beautiful numbness, no feeling, no sense.

 

 _Shit_. The bottle was all gone. He hadn’t had that much, surely? But he’d put lots in the marinade. Well… some. Who _cares_. He was off the stool, stumbling towards the corner cupboard. Pain in his foot, jagged and piercing. Something hot and wet suddenly making his foot slip.

 

He found the wine, the cheap red he used for cooking.

 

* * *

 

Now the wine was almost gone. It had been too far back to the stool, so he’d sat heavily by the cupboard, propping his back against the kitchen unit and ignoring the chill of the floor tiles beneath the seat of his trousers. The wine was red, deep, beautiful maroon, and there was a red trail back to the stool, he realized muzzily. Not maroon. Crimson. Scarlet. _My tiles are white. Why is there red?_

 

Slowly, he pulled his foot towards him, inspected the sole. His sock was torn. Some glass, from the glass. That was in his foot. Glass from the glass. Smashed.

 

“ _I’m_ smashed,” he said aloud, to no one, and laughed a confident, hyena cackle into the emptiness of the kitchen at his joke.

 

* * *

 

He woke with a jerk. It was still – just about – light. Or was this morning? He didn’t know. He reached absently for the wine bottle, but only succeeded in knocking it over instead, spilling the final drops. _Damn_. That was the last of it. If only he hadn’t sold all the Talisker.

 

The Talisker. He sold it. Why had he sold it? He blinked, slowly, passing his hand shakily before his eyes. Nausea rolled inside him. He sold it because it was bad. He shouldn’t… drinking was bad.

 

He must have more. There must be more, somewhere. He’d look for it.

 

He staggered upright, pulling himself up on the cupboard door, which tugged adrift from its moorings with a creaking groan as he gripped it, the hinge giving way so it hung drunkenly from the unit. Drunken. Like him. Was he at an angle? Or was it the world itself tilting oddly?

 

It didn’t matter. He’d hang for a sheep, not a lamb. More, more, more. He must have more, somewhere – he’d always had more when he wanted it, needed it…

 

Needed it… He needed…

 

And then he took a step on his wounded foot – and the pain was like a hot knife burning up his leg and he was gasping and vomiting at the shock and he wanted it to stop, Christ did he ever, _fuck,_ the pain – and he’d fallen down, curled in on himself, and this was agony, and he was dying from it, the retching, the cramps, as his stomach heaved and rolled and evacuated.

 

But he deserved it. He deserved every bit of it. He knew, now. The golden whisky that taunted him – he never deserved to taste it, how could he have forgotten? He should be punished. _She_ would punish him if she were here, but she wasn’t, and at the thought of _her_ his guts clenched again and he brought up more bile – sour and rough through his tortured throat, burning him. Not the pleasant burn that he craved, this was the hideous sharp fire of stomach acid on raw flesh inside his gullet, inside him. Inside, where his demons lived. And he’d let them out, let them beat him. He deserved it. Deserved this torment. _She_ would punish him – no, no, she was gone, of course she was.

 

 _Punished_. Who would stop him? He needed… someone.

 

He tugged his phone from his pocket, noting blurrily that he’d smashed the screen when he fell – or was it earlier? He couldn’t really remember what had happened between the fourth tumbler of whisky and the shuffle to the wine. He could still make out the display, just about, though someone seemed to have inflated his fingers so they felt like thick sausages. He struggled, but managed to select ‘call’.

 

_Pick up. Oh please, please, pick up._

 

“Hello?”

 

 _Thank God._ “Martin?” He retched again, uncontrollably.

 

“ _Douglas_? Are you OK?”

 

“Need help. Please.” Tears stung his eyelids, his eyes watering as his stomach cramped again and his foot throbbed where it was twisted beneath him.

 

“Where are you? What’s happened?”

 

“My house.” Douglas coughed. The kitchen was tilting again. Someone was playing silly buggers with gravity. “Stop it.” He’d meant to shout it at whoever was putting the world on a slant, but his voice was a hoarse whimper instead.

 

“OK. OK.” Douglas could hear clattering on Martin’s end, the sound of a door slamming. “I’m coming. Just hang on.” A car engine started.

 

 _Martin’s coming. He’ll give me what for. He’ll be furious. He’ll give me HELL._ “Good.” His head was so heavy and thick, like it was full of cement. He rested it on the cool tiles, wrinkling his nose at the stale smell of his vomit beside him. The phone slipped from his fingers, and broke completely, the screen black with a web of cracks scarring it. Cracked. Like him. Broken.

 

The tears flowed unbidden, a hot stream down his nose and cheek, and suddenly he felt blissful darkness swirling up irresistibly to meet him, embracing him, like a lover. Enfolding him in its grip. He gave himself up, spiraling under, down, down, down. Black.


	2. Chapter 2

_Clink. Clink, clink, clink. Tap._

 

Douglas groaned as he exhaled heavily, his brain unable to place the strange sound. He cracked an eye open, but all he could see was greyness. He felt… strange. _Where am I?_

 

He turned his head to the left, peering blurrily through his half-open eyelid, but before he could absorb anything useful, a ferocious, dull ache roared through his skull, making him wince and whimper.

 

“Douglas?”

 

 _That voice. I know that voice._ He opened his mouth to speak, noting that his throat felt as though it had been sanded down with a breezeblock. “Hello?”

 

“Ah. You’re awake.” Footsteps, towards him.

 

“Martin?” Sudden, crashing memory returned to him. _Martin, bending over me on the kitchen floor… hauling me into the lounge._ Queasy guilt spasmed through him, and his guts rolled – thankfully without actually producing anything this time. He flinched, and waited for Martin’s inevitable oncoming rant at him – it would be entirely justified, and he had never deserved it more…

 

“I made you some tea.”

 

 _Ah. That was the clinking, then. Spoon against cup_.

 

“Um. Thanks.” Douglas shut his eyes, waited for the shouting to start. Dread and resignation coiled tight and black within him.

 

“I’ll make a start on breakfast.” _Click_. Martin had left the room, closing the door.

 

Douglas’ eyes flew open in surprise. No yelling? But perhaps Martin was saving that for when he was vertical… He sat up with a groan, realizing with a zing of humiliation that he’d been stripped to his boxers. _Ah, yes. Martin had done that, too – ducking flailing, drunken limbs, peeling off the vomit-damp shirt…_ Douglas shuddered with embarrassment and shame.

 

He buried his face in his hands for a moment, wrinkling his nose at the acid smell of bile still clinging to his fingertips. Another bolt of pain whacked through his eye socket, making him wince. _Painkillers. Now._ He blindly reached for the tea, burning his hand slightly on the mug. A sip of that would make him feel more human, surely.

 

When he went to set it back down, he rested it on something that made a crinkling noise. Puzzled, he looked sideways, to discover that Martin had also left two strips of paracetamol and ibuprofen next to him. He hastily popped out two of each and gulped them down in one go, the hot liquid scalding his raw throat. He didn’t care. Really, he deserved the pain… but he was too much of a coward to suffer stoically through it. To numb the hurt, that had been his life’s mission. That had been where the alcohol started….

 

Shaking off the unpleasant recollection, he stood, weaving a little on the spot. _Bathroom_. He held the wall for a moment, taking stock of his surroundings – Martin had evidently put him to sleep on the sofa in his lounge. With another gush of ignominy, he saw that he’d been sick in the night down the couch – a brownish stain trailed off the edge of the cushions to a gradually drying damp patch on the floor. A half-memory tugged at him – or was it a dream? Someone rubbing his shoulder blades in the dark, murmuring something soothing, quiet, while he retched and sobbed and heaved again. A warm hand on his back, his brow… Martin wouldn’t have done that, surely. It must be a drunken dream – nothing more than a wishful thought. Except that the chair across the room bore unmistakable signs of having been slept in… Had Martin really stayed all night?

 

Bewildered at the unexpected turn of events, Douglas stumbled into the hall and up the stairs. Perhaps a wash would help him untangle his muddled brain.

 

* * *

 

Douglas hesitated outside the door to his kitchen, a cold droplet of water from his shower-damp hair trickling unpleasantly down his spine. He could hear Martin moving about, clattering pots and pans. The smell of frying eggs drifted through the door, but his stomach turned at the scent and his mouth flooded with sour saliva. He didn’t know what to do.

 

Mastering his apprehension, he pushed the door open with a harder-than-intended shove. It ricocheted off the wall with a clatter, startling Martin and making Douglas flinch at the sharp noise. He cleared his throat, awkwardly, and limped a couple of steps forward.

 

“Hi.”

 

“Hello.” Martin’s voice was quiet. He gave Douglas a fleeting smile that didn’t reach his eyes before turning back to the stove. “Have a seat. Breakfast?”

 

“Please.” In truth, Douglas didn’t want anything, his guts still feeling like they’d been scraped through with wire wool, but he knew Martin had made an effort. Accepting the food seemed like the smallest thing he could do by way of acknowledging it.

 

Martin turned as he reached the chair, holding the pan, just in time to witness Douglas wincing at the pain shooting through his foot. The paracetamol had done nothing to numb the spiky soreness. “Ah. You’re bleeding again, I’m afraid.” He gestured behind Douglas with the spatula.

 

Douglas swiveled to look, noting the red spots resignedly. “Not sure how I…” He trailed off, embarrassment swirling through him afresh. He had found the cut under his foot in the shower, but his mind had clouded over how he’d actually come by it.

 

“Think it was the broken bottle.” Martin calmly passed him the kitchen roll to wad over the jagged slash. “You’d stepped in the glass.” He ignored Douglas’ flinch at the word ‘bottle’, merely watching as the FO pressed a wodge of tissue to his sole with a hiss of discomfort. “I don’t think there are any shards left in there – I looked as best I could last night.”

 

 _God_. Douglas remembered, suddenly. He’d wept as Martin probed his foot, while he’d still been sprawled on the floor; the loud, uncontained sobs of a drunk, snotty and undignified and wet. Humiliation made him gruff. “Thanks.” He poked at the wound again, the sharp pain generated in so doing feeling satisfyingly punitive. “Think it’s stopped.”

 

“Eggs?”

 

Douglas nodded, watching tensely as Martin ladled two on to a plate for him. He was still waiting for the explosion of rage.

 

“Here you go.” Martin passed him the plate and a fork. “I’ll do us some toast.”

 

Douglas gaped in befuddlement as Martin flitted towards the toaster. He couldn’t take the suspense anymore. “Out with it.”

 

Martin turned, looking confused. “What?”

 

“Out with it, I said,” Douglas snapped, the anger burning inside at himself mutating, finding an outlet in Martin’s direction. “Come on, I know you want to.”

 

Martin just stared.

 

Douglas thumped a fist on the table as the furious words poured out of him, punctuating his blows. “Stupid Douglas, how could you do this, you know better, you’re a disgrace, you’re not fit to fly, you’re a fucking terrible pilot, friend, you _fucking imbecile_ …” Too late, he realized he’d been imitating his wife’s voice. It was her words in his head. _Her_.

 

Martin had taken a shocked step back at the start of Douglas’ torrent of recrimination. Douglas couldn’t understand the peculiar expression twisting in his features. Not anger – he’d seen Martin angry enough times to know what _that_ looked like; not pity, he’d seen that in his counsellor.... “What?” he roared, rage making him brutal. _Great. Now he’ll leave. And I’ll be alone. Again._

 

Martin surprised him by walking back to the table, toast forgotten. “I don’t want to say any of that.”

 

“I don’t believe you.” Douglas shoved away the plate of eggs, resentfully. “I would, if it were you sitting here.”

 

“You wouldn’t.” Martin reached out, placed his hand flat on the table, next to Douglas’.

 

“I would,” he replied, but the words lacked conviction. He’d stopped shouting now.

 

“Douglas.” Martin took his hand, wrapped his cold fingers in warm ones. “I don’t know what happened last night.” Douglas lowered his eyes, grief and fear twisting barbs into his flesh. “But I know something’s really been upsetting you. You’ve been quiet all week.”

 

Douglas shook his head, stared hard at the table. He was terrified that he was going to cry, and wouldn’t _that_ just be the final humiliation in front of his young captain? The complete disintegration of the Sky God.

 

“I nearly said something, yesterday,” Martin went on, his other hand now coming to rest warmly on Douglas’ wrist, “but I was too nervous to ask you about it. You never like talking about personal stuff.” He hesitated. “God. I wish I had.”

 

Douglas jerked his chin up. “Don’t you dare blame yourself.” He met Martin’s gaze, fiercely. “It’s my fault, alone.”

 

Martin twitched, his sea-green eyes burning into Douglas’ intense stare. “Fault isn’t a helpful way to put it, surely?” he inquired mildly.

 

“It is. Fucking _idiot_.” Douglas slapped the table, tore his hand free of Martin’s so he could cover his face. Hiding. _Coward_.

 

He heard Martin draw up a chair beside him, felt the warm press of a hand between his shoulder blades. “Shh.” Douglas’ shoulders jerked with the sobs he couldn’t suppress. “It’s OK… Shh…” Martin waited for Douglas to stop shaking before he spoke. “Douglas?”

 

Douglas couldn’t lift his head from where he’d buried it in his arms. Didn’t know how to deal with the ignominy of the younger man seeing him fall to bits. Such quiet sympathy was a thousand times more painful than Martin's rage would have been.

 

“Douglas?” Martin asked again.

 

“Mmm?” His voice was muffled under his palms.

 

“I think something happened last night. Something that was the last straw. Because I’ve seen you have bad weeks before – like when you haven’t been able to see Emily, or when you’ve had an argument with me or Carolyn – but you’ve always come out the other side without drinking. I know you have. So something must have happened, yesterday.”

 

Douglas made a weak noise of assent as Martin paused. Seemingly emboldened at being on the right track, the captain continued. “Do you want to tell me about it? It’s fine if not, it’s just… I – I’d do anything to try and help you. You know I would.”

 

“You would?” The shock of the offer was enough to get Douglas to look back at Martin again. He didn’t trust the words, but Martin nodded with evident sincerity.

 

Douglas couldn’t speak about it. Instead posed the question that had been throbbing through his brain since he awoke. “Why are you here, Martin?”

 

Martin looked surprised once more. “You called me.”

 

“I know.” Douglas did remember the call, the watery relief at hearing the voice on the other end. “But… you came. You stayed.”

 

“Of course I did.” Martin hopped down from the stool, grabbing some more tissue to mop up the new spots of blood on the floor. “You asked for help.”

 

Douglas stood up, tried to push him away from the task. “I can do that.”

 

“No you can’t.” Martin firmly steered him back to the chair. “Sit down. You’ll just make it bleed again.”

 

Douglas sat, not sure what to say. “You… you don’t mind?”

 

Martin looked up. “What – helping, or listening?”

 

Douglas waved his hand. “Both. Either.”

 

Martin smiled, a genuine one this time. “Both.” His face clouded. “I’m worried about you.”

 

Douglas tried to scoff light-heartedly. “Me? Douglas Richardson?”

 

But Martin wasn’t fooled. “Yes, you, Douglas Richardson, you… nincompoop.”

 

Douglas snorted a laugh at the term, the first time all week he’d felt a flash of actual humour. The amusement quickly died, and he leaned back in his chair, just as Martin spoke again.

 

“Why did you call _me_?”

 

Douglas cleared his throat, unsure whether to dissemble. Honesty won out. “I thought you’d be the angriest.”

 

“Oh.” Martin paused for a second before going back to wipe the floor some more. “Would you like me to be cross with you, then?”

 

Douglas grimaced. “It’s what I deserve.”

 

“Hmm. I disagree.”

 

“Typical,” Douglas bit out, only half in jest. “After all, when do you ever think I’m right?”

 

Almost all the bloodstains were gone now. Martin was rubbing at a last, stubborn spot, but refused to be diverted from the conversation nonetheless. “Douglas. What happened, last night?”

 

“Helena called.” He couldn’t believe he was telling Martin this.

 

Martin stilled, stared up at him. “Bad news?”

 

Douglas felt sick again. “Not for her.”

 

The captain chucked aside the bloody kitchen paper, came to stand next to Douglas. “Oh?”

 

“She’s getting married again. To the tai chi instructor. Whoopee for her.” He knew his voice was ten shades of bitter and resentful, but he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t hold it in. To his shame, his fingers still itched for a drink. He wanted nothing more to drown himself in whisky and vodka and wine until numbness reigned, pure and cold and emotionless.

 

Martin rested a hand on his shoulder, the physical gesture distracting Douglas from his mordant thoughts for a second. “Oh, Douglas. I’m so sorry.”

 

Douglas listened sharply for any hint of pity, or worse, schadenfreude, but could find none. Martin simply sounded genuinely sad for him. The unhappiness in his captain’s voice reflected so perfectly the misery coursing through his entire being that he coughed a sudden sob before mastering himself. “I still love her.”

 

“Douglas. I’m so, so sorry. I’m sorry.”

 

He couldn’t help it. He was crying again, great heaving moans that tore at his throat and made his head throb – but Martin’s arms were wrapped strongly around his shoulders, his hands patting and stroking his back, rocking him as if he were a child. In the abstract, Douglas knew he should be ashamed of his outburst, but Martin’s comfort was so welcome, so soothing, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

 

“You’ll make it through. You will,” Douglas heard Martin whispering, when his cries quieted enough to make out the words. “But you don’t need to drink to get through this.”

 

“I do…” Douglas knew he’d be embarrassed about his weakness, later. “I do.”

 

“No,” Martin’s words were firm. “You have me. And Arthur, and Carolyn.” He leant back so he could stare assuredly into Douglas’ eyes. “You do _not_ need to drink.”

 

“I’ve hurt you.” Douglas was abruptly assailed by raw guilt at the anxiety he could hear in Martin’s tone.

 

“No… well, I wish you’d called sooner.” Martin rubbed Douglas’ shoulders. “But you _did_ call, that’s the important thing. You made the right decision. And you can go on making the right decisions, like you have for eleven years before now.”

 

“I ruined it.” _Eleven years, down the drain_.

 

“No,” Martin shook his head decisively. “You slipped up. You won’t again. You will call me, day or night, when you feel like you need a drink. Because you don’t need a drink, you need a friend.” He looked suddenly nervous. “And… I want to call you my friend.”

 

“You are.” Douglas didn’t know what to say, blindsided by Martin’s unprecedented outpouring of insight.

 

“Thank you.” Martin gave him a warm smile. “Now then,” he hopped up, “where do you keep plasters?”

 

“Upstairs. Bathroom cupboard. Second on the right.” Douglas watched in stupefaction as Martin disappeared through the door, a jaunty spring in his step.

 

 _Friend_. Yes. He was. The loneliness grating at him felt somehow softened as Martin’s words from the middle of the night suddenly came back to him.

 

' _I’m here_.'

 

 _Thank God_ , thought Douglas, retrieving the plate. He began to eat his breakfast, as the sun shone warmly through the window on to his back. The eggs were good, soothing his insides. Everything seemed to hurt a little less.

**Author's Note:**

> If you are enjoying the fic - I now have Tumblr. Feel free to pop in at jay-eagle.tumblr.com :)


End file.
